Fruit and butter. She smelled like the skin of an apple. The sun was hot and I felt an unbounded sickness with earth. A single October day began to last a year. You can't fuck your life away, I thought. But you can! Listening in Nepal to those peahens scream in the evening. Then, through the glade, lordly he enters, his ass a ten-foot fan, a painting by a crazed old master. Look, they are human. Heads the size of two knuckles. But returning to her buttery appleness and autumn, my dead friend. We cannot give our lives over to women. Kneeling there under that vulgar sugar maple tree I couldn't breathe and with a hundred variations of red above me and against my mouth. She said I'm going away to Oregon perhaps. I said that I'm going myself to California where I hear they sleep out every night. So that ended that and the fan was tucked neatly and the peahens' screams were heard no more in the land and old ladies and old men slept soundly again and threw away their cotton earplugs and the earth of course was soaked with salt and August passed without a single ear of corn. Of course this was only one neighborhood. Universality is disgusting. But you had your own truly insurmountable horrors with that dancer, lacking all wisdom as you did. Your critic said you were "often revolted by your sensuality." He means all of that endless fucking of course. Tsk tsk. Put one measure against another and how rarely they fuse, and how almost never is there any fire and how often there is only boredom and a craving for cigarettes, a sandwich, or a drink. Particularly a drink. I am drunk because I no longer can love. I make love and I'm writing on a blackboard. Once it was a toteboard, a gun handle until I myself became a notch. And a notch, to be obvious, is a nothing. This all must pass as a monk's tale, a future lie. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BINGEN ON THE RHINE by CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN NORTON HELEN AND THETIS by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE VERSES WRITTEN IN THE LEAVES OF AN IVORY POCKET-BOOK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 37 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |